


Flames

by alasse



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode 513 AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU starting halfway through 513. Justin and Brian are ready to call the wedding off, both convinced it’s the right thing to do – they can’t sacrifice their lives and call it love. However, an art dealer approaches Justin the morning before the rehearsal dinner, and the advice he gives him is radically different from Lindsay’s. If Justin takes this advice, he has to figure out a way to make Brian understand exactly what he expects from a marriage. After all, they’re Brian and Justin, not Ben and Michael, or Melanie and Lindsay – normal doesn’t apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on lj in 2008, [here](http://alasse.livejournal.com/46998.html).

_“You are the only thing that makes me want to live it all…_  
When I am with you there’s no reason to pretend,  
When I am with you I feel flames again.  
Just put me inside you, I would never ever leave.  
Just put me inside you, I would never ever leave you.”  
\- Flames by VAST 

+

“If anyone had asked me, I would’ve said I’d be doing Britney and whoever’s wedding first,” Emmett says, still sounding as surprised as he did when Justin called him this morning to hire him as a wedding planner.

Justin knows how he feels. He can’t believe they just had a meeting about the wedding. Their wedding. Taylor-Kinney. Fuck. He bites his lip, fruitlessly fighting down the huge grin threatening to break out. Their _wedding_.

“Well, we’ll be sure to recommend you,” Brian grins, walking out of the office behind Justin and Emmett. 

They walk together down Kinnetik’s corridor, and Emmett leafs through the papers Justin handed to him. “Now, I’ve gone over your wish list and everything seems fairly cut and dry, but fabulous,” Emmett assures Justin, waving his hand. “Except for this one little item here? Golden gardenias?” he asks, pointing. 

Justin nods. He figured he’d be getting asked about that. “There’s a Chinese legend that once your lover breathes them in then he’ll love you forever,” he explains, smiling as Brian looks up, hazel eyes twinkling. 

“Hmm, call the florist, order a crate,” Emmett whispers in Justin’s ear. 

It’s not exactly that easy. Justin frowns slightly. “They only grow in the Xishuangbanna mountains in southern China,” he tells Emmett. He knows it sounds ridiculously extravagant, but he found out about the golden gardenias because he saw them in a painting, and did some research. They were so unique, and the legend so fucking romantic. And, fuck it all, Justin wants some romance. 

“How about some petunias that only grow in southern Pittsburgh?” Emmett asks, looking a bit peaked at the thought of the trouble the gardenias will cause.

Brian shakes his head slightly and admonishes Emmet, “Hey, if Justin wants golden gardenias -”

“Alright, then he’ll have golden gardenias,” Emmett interrupts, voice tinged with exasperation and affection.

Justin can’t help it anymore. He beams at the world at large, smiles so big it almost hurts. He’s so happy, so fucking happy and out of his mind in love. It’s been so long since he’s felt this unadulterated _joy_ , this joy that makes his blood buzz, makes him feel like he’s minutes away from just fucking flying. He meets Brian’s eyes, and he sees every bit of his joy mirrored there. 

+

Justin gets to the loft while his mom is still there, finishing off after showing the place to a possible buyer. He feels weird, thinking about Brian selling the loft. He loves the house, it’s a dream come true – Britin, as he named it this morning. But this loft, this loft has seen him turn into a man, into the best homosexual he could possibly be. So many of the best and worst moments of his life have happened under this roof. He’s going to miss it. 

Things with his mom are just a bit weird at first because she’s still sore about his issues with Tucker, but Justin stops her from leaving. He gives her the wedding invitation, and she’s absolutely speechless, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Justin knows they’re not just for him, they’re also for Brian. His mom has grown to care for him so deeply over the years, it’s funny to think there was a time when he was “this Brian.” 

Justin tells her she can invite anyone she wants. He still feels a bit weird about the whole Tucker situation, but he can’t be bothered to care, not today. His mom makes him promise to dance with her at the reception, which is just – no, no way. But then again, he’s sure Debbie will force him, resistance is futile. 

His mom starts dancing with him slowly, and Justin just goes with it. 

“Well, what do you know? Never too big to dance with your mom,” she whispers. 

+

Brian is hugging him from behind, a steady, comforting warmth in his back, while Justin explains the wedding reception seating chart. It’s a very good system, if he says so himself.

“Homo, lesbian, homo, lesbian, homo, lesbian,” he says, pointing at each name with his pencil. He frowns, a sudden thought occurring to him. “I hope Mel and Linds don’t leave town before the wedding, they’ll fuck up my entire seating arrangement.” 

And just like that, predictably enough, Brian disengages. “Something tells me they’re not going anywhere,” he replies, moving away from Justin and to the fridge to get a beer. Classic Kinney avoidance. “Pope Michael is never going to give his blessing.”

“I’d hate not seeing them, or the kids. Especially Gus,” Justin says, sadness coloring his voice. “I was there the night he was born, I even named him,” he adds, knowing his smile is nostalgic. God, it’s weird to think of that time, so long ago. Running down that corridor, exhilarated and scared, following Brian. The night his life started.

“I forgot about that,” Brian says, grinning.

“I’m not surprised; you were stoned out of your mind,” Justin notes. Brian kept taking stuff, hell, all that E would’ve killed somebody else. But it just made Brian do very graceless handstands. 

“And, yet, I have a vivid memory of the subsequent events,” Brian smirks, raising an eyebrow.

Justin huffs out a laugh. “I’m sure you do.” Like they both don’t. It was one of the most intense moments in Justin’s life.

“What the fuck,” Brian shrugs, talking about the Canada move again. “It’s their lives. It’s their decision.”

Yeah fucking right. Justin resists rolling his eyes. “You know, you amaze me. He’s your son, and you’re acting like you don’t give a shit.” Which is so not true. Brian always gives a shit, but he finds it easier to let people think he doesn’t. 

“They’re his parents, not me,” Brian shrugs. “I’m just –”

“An unaccredited guest appearance. I know,” Justin sighs. “You should give yourself more credit. I see how you are when you’re with him, it’s like nobody else on earth exists. And when he looks at you-”

“You know, I don’t think you should seat your mom’s boyfriend next to Debbie unless you’re trying to scare him away,” Brian interrupts.

Fucking hell! Justin hates it when he gets like this, acting like an unconcerned asshole. He takes the chart away from Brian. “Will you listen to me? Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

Justin knows he’s wading into dangerous territory, but it needs to be said. “You’re not your father. You love your son.” Because it’s what it comes down to, really. Brian’s scared shitless of being the disappointment Jack was to him. Seriously, if Jack Kinney wasn’t six feet under, Justin would kill him on principle. What a way to fuck up a person. “Now, what’s it gonna take for you to admit it? Another bomb?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one. 

Brian steps away, says, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

But Justin also knows he heard him loud and clear, and that one way or another, he got through to him. It’s useful, knowing how to speak Kinney.

+

The next day, Justin is puttering around in his studio when Lindsay shows up, looking determined and excited in that way which always means trouble, or a long, long round of “Lindsay knows best.” 

She doesn’t even bother saying hello. “Remember that critic from Art Forum?” she starts, practically giddy. “The one you thought was that _other_ c-word?”

Justin chuckles. How could he forget? The guy stared at his ass for a good half-hour. “Simon what’s-his-name?”

“He wrote an entire article about you,” Lindsay exclaims, throwing an open magazine in front of Justin. He scans the article titled ‘An Artist Emerges’ quickly. It’s a pretty amazing article alright, but, in the great scheme of things, he’s just one art critic. 

“So?” he finally asks, when Lindsay keeps staring at him.

“So, do you realize how much buzz this has created?” Lindsay says. “I mean, I’m already getting calls from galleries, collectors…” she trails off.

“That’s nice.” Because, really, what the hell is he supposed to say?

“Nice? Artists work for years, their entire lives, and never get this kind of attention,” Lindsay rants. “Critics are raving about you, people want to buy your work.”

“Great. You can sell it to them.” It _is_ why he put it up in her gallery in the first place.

“Well, that’s true, I could.” And here it is, this is why Lindsay really showed up. “But this is a chance for you, to move up. Take the next step.”

“Where?” Justin asks, honestly curious.

“New York.”

Justin starts laughing. No fucking way.

“Well, I’m serious. It’s the center of the art world,” Lindsay says, as if Justin didn’t know already.

“I know. If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere,” he mocks. Lindsay doesn’t get the sarcasm.

“You’ve practically made it already. All you have to do now is show up,” she smiles. Yeah, right. As if it’s that easy.

“I can paint in Pittsburgh,” Justin points out.

“You think Warhol would’ve become Warhol if he’d stayed here?”

“If it’s so important, why didn’t you go?” Seriously. How much is this about Justin, and how much about Lindsay’s own frustrated hopes?

“Because I didn’t have your talent,” she shrugs.

Justin is quiet for a moment. “I know how much this means to you, how much you believe in me – you always have.” And he’s grateful for that, he really, really is. But moving to New York, now? It’s crazy. “But New York isn’t my opportunity of a lifetime. Brian is.” 

He believes that with all his heart. Brian is more than the opportunity of a lifetime, Brian is his _life_. And yet, unwelcome and unavoidable, there’s a small seed of doubt, now. Because what if? What if Lindsay’s right? What if New York is the right move? What if he’s going to miss out on being recognized as an artist if he doesn’t go?

What if?

+

The doubt would’ve been quickly put aside, but Brian brings it up that very night. Lindsay gave him the magazine, of course, she couldn’t resist meddling, and while Justin browses magazines for furniture and appliances, Brian reads the article aloud, complete with colorful commentary. 

Justin tries to shrug it off, telling him how Simon the cunt was an art scene fairy who didn’t really admire his painting, but his ass, and that it doesn’t merit hopping on a Greyhound to New York.

“He could’ve admired you ass _without_ writing a fawning review,” Brian points out, incisive as always. “And you have never been in a Greyhound in your life.”

“No, but I _have_ been to Hollywood,” Justin replies, moving closer to Brian, until he’s on his knees next to the couch. “They gushed, too, remember? Made a bunch of bullshit promises. What makes you think New York would be any different?” He pauses, remembering the disappointment of Rage, and the weird, messed up state of their relationship when he came back. “The only one who never broke a promise was you,” he finishes quietly, and leans in to kiss Brian.

+

They’re trying on their tuxes, and after Justin puts his on, he steps out of the changing room to meet Brian in front of the mirrors. He smiles, taking in Brian in black. Fuck, he always looks unbelievable in a suit, it’s just not fair. Justin probably looks idiotic next to him.

“Holy shit,” Brian says, staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Justin asks.

“You look…” Brian trails off, still eating him with his eyes.

“Good? Bad? Laughable?” So, maybe Justin is a bit paranoid. But, hey, stand next to Brian Kinney in a tux and try not to feel inadequate. 

But Brian sighs, and replies, “Beautiful,” in a quiet, heartfelt voice that melts Justin.

“I do?” he moves to stand in front of the mirror, and Brian follows him, stopping behind him. Justin stares at their reflection, loving how they look together.

“It’s not a question,” Brian whispers in his ear. “It’s a declaration. So try to be more emphatic when the minister asks you if you want to go through with this,” he says, chuckling.

Justin turns around in Brian’s arms, smiling. “I do,” he says, putting as much emphasis as he can into his words. Because, damn, he does. Brian smiles back, and they kiss for a long, long time. But they stop, because getting jizz on their wedding tuxes wouldn’t be too romantic.

+

After that, things start getting weird. 

It begins with Brian’s ad campaign for Remson. The new boards are among the most boring, corny, and crappy things Justin has ever seen, and it’s like an aberration for them to have come from Brian. What the hell does he mean, “sex is out”? When is sex ever out for Brian Kinney?

Then, when Justin tells him to get dressed and get some good party favors, Brian tells him he’d rather have a quiet evening at home. Justin thinks it’s a good joke, until Brian passes on fucking the ridiculously hot stripper.

Brian’s words keep coming back to him. 

_“The prisoner respectfully chooses not to partake of his last meal, but to be led instead to the gallows a hungry, but happy man.”_

Even when Justin insisted, told him it was totally fine by him, Brian came out with _“I’m content to take my winnings, and go home.”_

What’s going on? Justin feels freaked out of his mind. Is this what marriage does to Brian Kinney? Because, right now, Brian is just – he’s just _not_ Brian.

+

Justin can’t go to sleep. He’s been mulling over the strange string of events, about how odd Brian is acting. He wants _his_ Brian back, the insolent, infuriating, absolutely amazing asshole. And there’s one surefire way he knows to get him.

“I had a dream last night, that we were in our new house,” he starts, nudging Brian, who is very much awake.

“Cooking? Gardening? Sitting in front of the fire?” Brian asks, turning to face Justin.

“Not exactly,” Justin grins, sliding even closer. “You were riding me in the stables. Diving into me in the pool. Slamming me on the tennis court.”

“Well, that gives a new meaning to US Open,” Brian quips.

“I better start practicing my serve,” Justin grins, and goes under the covers, intent on giving Brian the blowjob of his life. 

But then, Brian speaks. “Wouldn’t you rather just cuddle?” he asks.

What the fuck?! Justin sits up. This is just too much. It’s like he’s stepped into a bad, bad dream. “What?” he asks, truly horrified.

“I said, wouldn’t you rather just lie here and-” Brian starts.

“No, no, no, I heard what you said,” Justin interrupts impatiently. “You said cuddle,” he repeats the word, hoping this is the part where Brian starts laughing at him for being such a drama queen over a word, and hello? Joke? But it doesn’t happen.

“So?” Brian asks, as if nothing is wrong.

“ _So_ , I have never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it.” Seriously, Brian has to stop now. 

“Okay, so, can we just turn the lights out?”

Oh, no way, mister. Justin is not going to sleep after this episode in Bizarro universe. “No!” he exclaims. “No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles,” he almost spits out the last word.

“Okay, so I used a word that offends your sensibilities,” Brian says, shrugging. And Justin can’t take this anymore, he has to get out of the bed. “Forgive me, I apologize, I’ll never do it again,” Brian finishes. 

“No, it’s more than just that,” Justin shakes his head, pacing. “Every day we get closer to being married, the person I know gets further away.”

“I’m right here,” Brian replies.

“But it’s not you,” Justin says desperately. Because it’s just not. And Justin didn’t sign up for this. He doesn’t want marriage if it means Brian is no longer himself, if it means he gets a Stepford fag, just like the many Brian mocked relentlessly. There’s a difference between growing up, between realizing you want commitment, to fundamentally changing everything about you to fit what everyone else thinks is right. And Justin needs to make Brian understand that. “Looks like you, feels like you, but _you_ , you would never go to your own stag party and not fuck every hot guy in sight. You would never be more interested in _gardening_ than getting laid.”

“I’m just trying to make you happy,” Brian says loudly, clearly frustrated.

“I want you to do what makes _you_ happy. Not me.” Because what’s the fucking point in being married and feeling like a chore, like your husband has just eliminated who he is for you?

“What about you?” Brian asks, and Justin should’ve known. Brian never gives up that easily, the New York issue was never really dropped.

He sighs deeply, shoving a hand into his hair. Fucking Brian.

“Yes, you,” Brian says, obviously not letting him get away with silence. “Not going to New York?”

“Fuck New York,” Justin replies curtly.

“Conquering the art world?”

“Fuck the art world!” he yells. Jesus Christ, why can’t they let this be?

But this is Brian, of course he’s not going to let it be. He keeps prodding. “Why? Because you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid,” Justin spits out, and sits back down in the bed, getting his feet inside the covers.

“Then what?” Brian inquires.

“I don’t want it,” Justin shrugs. 

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t. It means nothing,” he says, hoping his voice sounds firm. Because it’s just been too much, Lindsay, now Brian, both of them so instrumental in his decision-making process, and both of them digging, prodding, making Justin’s mind go down paths he didn’t want to consider.

“Would it still mean nothing if I wasn’t here?” Brian asks quietly. Of course, the fucker always knows what to ask.

“How do you expect me to give you a rational response when the circumstances you presented are completely suppositional, and as such have no basis in reality?” Justin rants, using big words because he has no fucking clue what to say. 

“Just answer the goddamned question!”

“Argh, I don’t know!” he finally gets out, seriously frustrated, flopping down into the mattress. Why the fuck did Brian have to keep asking, why couldn’t he let things be?

Everything’s fucked now. Brian and his Stepford routine, which is just wrong – Justin won’t marry him if it turns him into that, if Brian thinks he needs to turn into that. And New York, New York. It’s not just a seed of doubt now, it’s a fucking redwood tree.

“Well, I do,” Brian answers his own question, taking Justin’s hand in his. “I don’t want to live with someone who sacrificed their life and called it love to be with me.”

“Neither do I,” Justin shrugs helplessly, voice breaking. 

Their eyes meet, and, fuck. Justin’s never felt this helpless. How did things get this fucked up, this fast?

Neither is willing to say it aloud, not right now. But the words keep running through Justin’s mind, mocking, painful, bitter. The wedding is off.

+

Justin leaves the loft early, before Brian wakes up. He needs to paint, needs to let out all of his pain and confusion, let it bleed into a canvas. 

He’s about to start splattering paint when a man walks in – mid-forties, short, chubby. He’d be utterly unremarkable except for his air of confidence, that same air Brian projects, which makes everybody stop and look. 

“Can I help you?” Justin asks. 

The man smirks. “The question, Mr. Taylor, is can _I_ help you,” he pauses, and then extends a hand. “The name’s McGregor. Nathaniel McGregor. Art connoisseur and manager.”

Justin shakes Mr. McGregor’s hand, and tries to keep his cool. He’s heard of him, of course he has – Nathaniel McGregor is a damn important art agent, he’s handled quite a few big names. What the hell is he doing here?

Mr. McGregor starts walking around Justin’s studio, eyeing every finished painting and work in progress. Justin is silent, he has no idea what to say, or how to act. Eventually, McGregor finishes his tour and stops in front of Justin.

“I read the article in Art Forum. A most grandiloquent review,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “But then, Simon has always loved his adjectives.” Shit. It’s just what Justin feared, the fucking review was a joke. But Nathaniel goes on, “Still, pompous wording aside, he wasn’t wrong. You do have talent. A lot of talent. What are you planning to do with it?”

Justin swallows. Having Simon the cunt write a fawning review was one thing, but now Nathaniel McGregor? It’s sheer luck that he’s in Pittsburgh, that he has enough time to drop by Justin’s studio. Maybe New York is a true possibility. Justin takes a deep breath, and says, “Well, I was planning on going to New York, to live there for a while, try-”

McGregor rolls his eyes. “The tortured, starving artiste routine?” he interrupts. “Oh, spare me. I’ve checked up on you, Mr. Taylor. You have an unusual track record. Your injury, for one thing. And getting in and out of the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts, what with political protests and Hollywood. You didn’t finish your degree?”

Justin shakes his head. “No, I – well, after I came back from Hollywood I didn’t really feel it was the right move.” He feels like he’s being cross-examined, he’s never felt this intimidated.

McGregor stares at him, sneering disdainfully. “The right _move_? Young man, in what world are you living? Do you honestly think you can do anything of yourself without a college degree, without some sort of education? Regardless of what people say, the “school of hard knocks” never gave anyone anything but poverty and STD’s,” he shakes his head. “I’m sure your current agent, Ms. Peterson, has told you that you can make it in New York, what with your glowing review and successful show. A lovely, rose-colored view of things. But let me tell you this – it’s _one_ review, and _one_ show. That doesn’t make you a successful artist. If I were to tell you the number of men and women I’ve met, the number of times I’ve heard the words “the next big name.” Make no mistake, Mr. Taylor, if you go to New York now, you’ll be forced to come back to Pittsburgh within the year, penniless, and disappointed. How do you expect to paint in a city where they charge you for breathing?”

Justin’s hands curl into fists. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? How does he get off, spouting this crap? “So what the hell am I supposed to do, then?”

McGregor laughs, and the sound grates on Justin’s ears. “Are you slow, boy? Go back to school. Keep painting. Do more shows here. From what I found out, you didn’t have problems with tuition. I don’t care who pays for your education, whether it be your father, your brother, your pimp, or your sugar daddy – you have no idea just how lucky you were to be given the chance to get a degree. I assure you, without a proper education, you’ll get nowhere,” he declares, pointing a finger at Justin. “Don’t be an idiotic idealist. These days? In this world? Artists don’t just live off their canvases and their muses. They also teach, and design book covers and advertising campaigns. The day of the starving artiste is long past.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

McGregor shrugs. “I was in town, and I was bored. Went to that exhibit of yours, and saw your work. You caught my eye.” He reaches inside his jacket pocket and takes out a business card. “If you ever graduate, give me a call. We’ll see if you’re ready to try New York then. Good day, Mr. Taylor,” he nods, and without further ado, walks out.

Justin stands in the middle of his studio, in shock. Just like that, all his grandiose plans, most of his confidence, what he thought he knew about the art world, it’s all been torn to shreds. He’d love to shrug McGregor’s advice off, to tell him to go fuck himself. But the man knows what he was talking about, more so than Lindsay, than Justin himself. The arrogant asshole hit on every single thing that bothered Justin, addressed all his insecurities, from the article to the city. And what he said about PIFA, fuck. It’s so similar to what Brian said all along. 

Justin shuts his eyes, frustrated. He needs to figure this out, he needs to think. He grabs his jacket, and decides to go to a place that always calms him down.

+

_“Justin, where the hell are you?”_

Justin cringes at the reprimand clear in Daphne’s voice. “Um, I’m at the Carnegie Museum of Art.” He called Daphne because he needs to talk to someone, he needs help to sort out everything that’s happened in the last few days. 

_“And why exactly are you hanging out at the goddamned museum on the day of your wedding rehearsal dinner?”_ Daphne sounds ready to have an aneurism.

“’Cause I needed to think. Daph – I could really use a friendly ear right now,” Justin replies.

Daphne’s sigh is loud. _“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”_

While he waits for Daphne to arrive, Justin walks around the museum, this museum he knows like the back of his hand, this place that’s been his for as long as he can remember, even before Brian. It’s strange to realize there’s a place that’s important to him not related to Brian. Maybe that was Brian’s whole point. _“Would it still mean nothing if I wasn’t here?”_ Maybe Brian wasn’t asking Justin to imagine his life and his future without Brian, maybe he was just asking him to not to place the entire weight of his life and expectations on them. Because they can’t be together if they can’t be apart, if they don’t know how to be Justin and Brian besides being JustinandBrian. 

“Justin.”

Justin turns to see Daphne behind him, hair beautifully made up but dressed in sweatpants. She was probably getting ready for the dinner, and she looks worried. 

He hugs her hard for a long time. “Thanks so much for coming, Daph.”

“Well, duh. It’s not like I wasn’t gonna,” Daphne rolls her eyes, but smiles. “So, come on. What’s going on, Justin?”

Justin bites his lip and takes Daphne’s hand, leads the way to the museum’s garden. Once they’re outside, sitting side by side on a stone bench, Justin starts talking. 

“Daph, it’s been fucking crazy. I mean – shit. Right now, I’m pretty sure the wedding’s off.”

“What?!” Daphne almost falls off the bench. She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Off? Okay, you gotta start from the beginning. Last time I saw you, you were trying on tuxes and getting golden gardenias. How did you go from that to the wedding being off?”

Justin cards a hand through his hair, honestly stumped as to how to explain the cluster-fuck of the past few days. “Well, I guess. I guess you could say it started with Lindsay. You know that article about me in Art Forum?” Daphne nods quickly. “She came to my studio and started going on and on about how I should move to New York City and try to make it there, telling me that the article was, like, an open door to getting a solo show at the fucking MoMA or something.”

“Wait, she wanted you to move to New York? But what about the wedding, what about Brian?”

Justin shrugs. “Apparently, the magazine article was the opportunity of a lifetime. Whatever. I didn’t even consider it, but Lindsay told Brian about the article and, I’m sure, totally convinced him that if I didn’t go to New York I’d be miserable forever. And, I don’t know. Stuff the two of them said, it got to me, y’know? I mean, it definitely _would_ be amazing to live in New York City, to try and make it in the art world there. But I was gonna put it behind me, ‘cause Brian mattered a lot more than New York.”

“Justin, you say that as if New York was actually a logical option,” Daphne interrupts, frowning. “I mean, I’m sorry for sounding harsh, but do you realize how crazy it sounds? Deciding to move to New York City over a magazine article? Without a job, a college degree, a plan…”

Daphne and Mr. McGregor seem to agree. “I know, I know. But, trust me, a few hours ago it really did seem to be a logical option. Brian Kinney’s brand of persuasion can do that to anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Brian started acting all weird. Like, Stepford weird,” Justin shudders at the memory of Brian asking to ‘cuddle’. Seriously. “He didn’t want to fuck the hot stripper at his stag party, he kept saying the weirdest stuff. And last night, after the party, he was just so very out of character. It was is if getting married took away his personality, took away so much of what I fell in love with in the first place.”

Daphne grins. “Brian’s non-conformity _is_ pretty damn hot, much like every other part of him,” she trails off, and turns serious. “But, Justin. What did you expect? I mean, you guys broke up because Brian refused to change, because you wanted commitment. And now that he’s changed, now that he gave you commitment, you don’t want it anymore?”

“No, it’s not that,” Justin shakes his head. “I want to marry him, Daph, I do want commitment. But I don’t want him to turn into Michael so I can get it.”

“And did you ever talk to him about this? Did you ever tell him what you expected him to be in your committed relationship?” Daphne asks.

“Not really. I mean, I just told him that I needed more. You know, when we broke up,” Justin replies, thinking back to that awful night.

“Well, no fucking wonder. Don’t you remember where you stayed that night you guys broke up?” Daphne seems to be one second away from strangling him. “You went to Michael, Justin. You all but told Brian that Michael and Ben’s life was what you wanted. And, I love them and all, but they _are_ kinda are Stepford.”

Well, fuck. Of course. Why the hell hadn’t Justin made that connection? Ever since he came back from Hollywood he’d been pulling Brian from one place to another. He suddenly remembered that dinner party with Michael’s friends. They’d been absolutely insufferable assholes, and if Justin couldn’t stand people like that, Brian was worse. He hated hypocrisy, hated people pretending they were better. And yet, he’d asked Brian to behave, he’d somehow told Brian that it was those dinner parties and that life that he wanted. 

“Daph, what would I do without you?” Justin asks.

Daphne smiles. “Royally fuck up your life, probably.”

Justin bursts out laughing. “Yeah, probably.”

+

Justin is pacing close to the door. The tables are set for the rehearsal dinner, they look perfect. He couldn’t believe everything was set up, but, then again, last night neither Brian nor he actually said the words aloud, so they didn’t cancel anything. And he doesn’t want to anymore. He doesn’t want to call the wedding off. He doesn’t want to go to New York, not right now. Nathaniel McGregor, the pompous asshole, and Daphne were right. He doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t have a way to make it work. He has to go back to school, he has to do this right. He can’t afford to go halfway on his fucking _life_ , on being an artist. And he doesn’t want to be without Brian. 

He freezes when he hears the door sliding open. 

Brian looks so fucking beautiful. It never stops getting to Justin, the sheer beauty that’s almost painful. God, he can’t believe he almost let this go, let Brian go. 

Brian raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Brian, I don’t want to call the wedding off,” Justin blurts out. So much for taking this slow.

“Justin -”

“No, Brian, I’m serious,” Justin interrupts him before he can get started. “I know you think I have to go to New York City, I know Lindsay told you it was my one opportunity to make it in the art world, but that’s bullshit, Brian. An agent came to see me this morning, a pretty important guy. And he told me that I’m gonna get nowhere unless I get my degree, unless I finish school. And I want to do that.”

“It’s not a bad prequel anymore?” 

Justin can’t help but chuckle. “No. No, I think I finally understand you can’t get to the main feature without the prequel.” He becomes serious again. “Brian, I don’t want Michael and Ben’s life. I don’t want that. I just want us. Like we are, like we’ve always been. I want you to be your fucking amazing insufferable self, and I’m going to be the little shit I’ve always been. No apologies and no regrets.”

Brian rolls his lips inside his mouth and nods, stepping closer. Justin takes the last step until they’re barely an inch away, and he leans up to kiss Brian. The kiss is slow but deep, it’s a question and an answer. 

The wedding’s on.

+

The rehearsal dinner is great. People make all the predictable jokes, Ted actually does get them stuff from Prada, because apparently you _can_ register, and they also get a water buffalo. 

“What the fuck is a water buffalo?” Brian asks Lindsay, looking horrified. 

“It’s an endangered species, Brian,” Lindsay patiently explains again. 

“Fucking hell, Lindsay, haven’t you heard of gift cards?”

So, yes, everything goes just fine. But looking around, seeing everyone they care about gathered together, Justin can’t help but feel that something’s still not quite right. It’s just so normal. So ordinary. So unlike them. 

Brian and Justin, they were never like anyone else. Justin thinks back to that first night, a streetlamp and _Are you coming, or going?_ , to their push-and-pull, their dynamic, their private world. At the beginning everyone thought that Justin was just a stupid kid and Brian just a fucking asshole, and even though there was truth in that, nobody seemed to remember that Brian gave Justin a home and a family, and that Justin saw Brian, not Brian Kinney, stud of Liberty Avenue. Through all their ups and downs, breaking up and getting back together, it’s always been just them. Nobody else has ever really gotten it. 

When everyone’s finally gone, Brian embraces Justin from behind. 

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.

Justin bites his lip. “Brian, how about we elope?”

+++

“Em, I think you outdid yourself,” Ted says, looking around the beautiful ballroom. The tables look gorgeous, and the centerpieces each hold one golden flower.

“Didn’t I?” Emmett claps his hands giddily. “It was so wonderful to get to plan this. I mean, it’s _Brian and Justin_. Did you ever think you’d be walking into their wedding?”

“I know I never did,” Michael says, walking up to them. “This is place looks amazing, Em, congratulations.”

“Yeah, I love how you used the space. It’s so calm, but celebratory,” Ben adds, putting an arm around Michael’s waist.

“Well, I had pretty good inspiration,” Emmett grins, pointing at the black and white picture of Brian and Justin hanging on one of the walls.

“Brian looks fucking hot. Justin, meh,” Hunter shrugs. Debbie, who’s just walked in with Carl, hears him and hits him upside the head. “Ow!”

“It’s their wedding day, you little shit. Show more respect,” Debbie admonishes. She looks around and her eyes widen. “Holy fuck! This is one classy joint, Em!”

Eventually, all the guests fill up the ballroom. Daphne and Jennifer nervously check the time and glance at the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Only Brian Kinney would be late to his own wedding ‘cause he’s fucking the other groom,” Melanie gripes. 

“Shh, Mel!” Lindsay silences her, looking around. 

“What? I can’t complain about Brian just ‘cause he’s getting married?”

People are getting nervous, wondering whether something’s wrong. Suddenly, Cynthia walks in with a piece of paper and takes it to Ted. Ted’s eyes widen comically when he reads it, and then he chuckles. 

Michael runs up to him. “Ted, is everything okay?”

Ted nods and walks to the center of the room, clears his throat. “Um, hello. I know you’re all here for Brian and Justin’s wedding, but. Well, we just got this fax.” Ted shakes his head and starts reading. “If you’re reading this, it’s because you’re all waiting for us to get married. I suggest you take advantage of all the booze we bought and get drunk, ‘cause you’re going to keep waiting. We’ve decided to elope. We’ll be back in a while, but don’t call. We’re going to be pretty busy. Cheers, Brian and Justin.”

“Well, fuck,” Debbie says after a second. 

“Yes, I do believe that’s what they meant by “busy”, Deb,” Ted nods.

+++

_La Casa Que Canta Hotel, Ixtapa, Mexico_

“Brian, this place is incredible,” Justin says, looking around the exclusive beach resort. It’s high up in a hill, and the view is absolutely breathtaking. They’re being driven to their room in a golf cart, and every member of staff they’ve encountered has greeted them by name. 

“Wait until you see the room,” Brian grins. 

Justin still can’t believe they did it. Eloped. They signed the legal papers in the morning, right before leaving Pittsburgh, and then hopped on a plane headed to Mexico. It feels absolutely right. 

They finally arrive to their room, and the bell-button quickly unloads their bags. He asks if they need anything, but Brian shakes his head and gives him a big tip. 

“Come on,” he takes Justin by the hand and leads him inside. 

The suite is huge and absolutely gorgeous. Classic Mexican furniture, brown terracotta tiles, fresh bright flowers everywhere. But Brian doesn’t stop until they get to the bedroom. And when Justin looks inside, he can’t hold back a gasp.

There’s a single golden gardenia lying in the bed. 

“Brian,” he breathes out. Fuck, he can’t believe this man.

Brian just raises an eyebrow. “You wanted one.”

So Justin has to kiss him. Brian kisses back, hard, and walks Justin backward to the bed. He pushes Justin down carefully, moves the golden gardenia to the bedside table. They undress slowly, and Brian kisses every inch of skin he uncovers. Justin feels languid, like he can’t move unless Brian touches him, like he has no substance unless Brian kisses him. 

“Brian, fuck me,” he says, and it sounds like a prayer.

Brian grins, that small, almost boyish grin. He opens a drawer in the bedside table and pulls out condoms and lube. The hotel really gives the customer satisfaction. 

Brian takes his time prepping Justin, brings him to edge of orgasm again and again. Justin is on his back, he wants to see Brian. Like the first time. And then, finally, Brian sheaths himself and pushes in slowly. Justin’s head falls back against the pillow. He feels so full, so fucking complete. Brian finds their rhythm, and Justin moves his hips, meeting thrust for thrust, Brian hitting his prostate unerringly. He holds on to Brian’s forearms, and Brian leans closer to take his lips in a bruising kiss. 

Fuck. Nothing compares to this, nothing can ever come close. Brian and him, it’s so illogical, it’s so unexpected. And it’s so fucking perfect. So goddamned _right_. Beyond all explanations, beyond all definitions. It’s them.

“Come for me, Justin,” Brian whispers. And Justin obeys, comes so hard he almost passes out. 

Brian pulls out gently, ties the condom and tosses it in a nearby trashcan. They lie side by side, listening to the surf crashing against the rocks outside. The sun is close to setting, and everything is bathed in a soft golden light. 

When Justin feels like his legs will support him, he stands up and goes to the terrace, stares at the endless Pacific Ocean. 

Brian joins him after a while, and he brings a small, black box with him.

“What’s that?” Justin asks, pointing.

“Oh, come on, Sunshine. Can’t you guess?” Brian smirks. 

No, it can’t be. But Brian opens the box, and it is. Rings. Platinum rings. Justin stares open-mouthed. “Brian…”

“What, you thought you were going to get away with just signing a paper, Taylor?” 

Justin shakes his head. Brian Kinney will never stop surprising him. He extends a shaky hand to take the bigger ring, and Brian takes the other one. They look at each other for a moment. What can they say? What words could ever be enough?

Justin is filled with sudden certainty. He extends his hand, and nods at Brian. Brian slides the ring onto Justin’s finger, and when it’s on, Justin simply says, “Yours.”

He puts on Brian’s ring, and Brian echoes, “Yours.”

Nothing more needs to be said. 

+

There are no tuxes, but naked’s always been their best look. There’s no touching speech by a bull-dyke minister, but it’s not as if anyone’s ever been able to understand their relationship except each other, anyway. There is no lavish reception, with perfect place-settings, perfect food, the hottest DJ. But there are rings, and a single golden gardenia, and a single word exchanged. And that, that was all they ever needed. 

 

**The End**


End file.
